


Stuck

by RobinLeStrange



Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith, Strike (TV 2017)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, F/M, Fluff, Past Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Pining, Post-Lethal White, Smut, more tags as story progresses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-16
Updated: 2019-11-07
Packaged: 2020-12-20 18:14:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 8,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21061037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RobinLeStrange/pseuds/RobinLeStrange
Summary: The lift at Denmark Street was working, but now it's not and Robin and Strike are stuck...





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LulaIsAKitten](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LulaIsAKitten/gifts).

> Thank you to LulaIsAKitten for suggesting the idea of developing my Fictober drabble...hope you like it!

“Bugger! is that the time?”   
  
Strike looked up from his position, prone on the farting sofa, case file in hand. “Everything alright?”   
  
“Fine,” Robin said, hastily tidying her desk and switching off the computer. “But I’m meant to be at Maxwell’s in half an hour, it’s Vanessa’s birthday and I’m meeting her and some of her colleagues.”   
  
“Best get a move on then…” he watched as she battled with her handbag, a second large bag containing a shoe box, and a dress bag, heading for the loo on the landing, “…do you want go upstairs and get ready?”   
  
“Oh…no…I couldn’t it’s fine,” she replied, a little too hastily. She knew how protective Strike was of his personal space, and besides, the thought of wandering around his flat in her underwear made her feel a little…lightheaded.   
  
He levered himself off the sofa to open the door for her, quirking an eyebrow, “Sure?”   
  
She sighed. The office loo was tiny. “Oh alright.”   
  
“Go straight up, door’s open.”   
  
She chuckled at the fact his protectiveness didn’t extend to locking his own front door, and headed up the stairs to change. 

* * *

Strike returned to the sofa and resumed his read through of the case notes of a client he was due to catch up with on Monday. He could hear Robin moving around overhead, the soft baseline of music playing on her phone, and his concentration lasted all of ninety seconds before he conceded defeat and gave up. It had been months now since she’d split with Matthew and still things were exactly the same. Well, maybe not _exactly_. There were more trips to the Tottenham, and there were curry nights at Nick and Ilsa’s which, much to Strike’s delight, had continued after she’d moved into her flat share. The camaraderie between them was at an all time high, but the demands of the business meant they rarely worked a case together these days. He missed her and not just as a colleague. He missed her in ways that had nothing to do with reality and everything to do with that little piece of his heart that, however hard he tried not to listen, just wouldn’t stop whispering _‘maybe’_…   
  
He frowned briefly as another sound drifted down the stairs and through the open door of the office:   
  
_So I put my faith in something unknown_  
_I'm living on such sweet nothing_  
_But I'm tryin' to hope with nothing to hold_  
_I'm living on such sweet nothing_  
_And it's hard to learn_  
_And it's hard to love_  
_When you're giving me such sweet nothing_

Robin…singing. He chuckled to himself, rounded up their mugs and his ashtray, took them through to the kitchenette and washed up and contemplated the evening ahead, which for him would comprise takeaway, TV and beer. He’d not been on so much as a date since Lorelei had unceremoniously dumped him, and occasionally he thought it might make a change to have some female company. Then he’d have to quickly distract himself because it wasn’t just any female company he wanted and dwelling on that for too long was not helpful. At all.

Having tidied up, Strike shrugged on his heavy overcoat and headed out for cigarettes, beer and fish and chips, grateful that after years of nagging, the lift had finally been fixed. The door was just opening when he heard the sound of Robin’s heels coming down the stairs behind him. He turned and saw her approaching laden with bags again.   
  
“Can you hold on a minute? I’ll just drop this lot in the office for now,” she called.   
  
She had her long, camel coloured coat on, with a patterned scarf in shades of green and blue. As she approached, he could see that her make up was a little heavier, her lips a deeper shade of pink…_no, don’t look too closely_…and her hair, which had grown longer since the summer and been tied back in a plait all day, was now loose and falling around her face in waves. Her practical brogues had been replaced with silver sandals and her toenails were painted with purple glitter, which made him smirk.   
  
“What are you laughing at?”   
  
He stood aside to let her into the lift first, “You’ve never particularly struck me as a glittery kind of woman,” he grinned, nodding at her feet.   
  
She looked at him for several seconds, lost for words. What the hell was that supposed to mean? That she was plain, boring? Well, she supposed she would be after burlesque dancing Lorelei with her constantly revolving wardrobe of vintage clothes, and Charlotte bloody Campbell with her…everything.   
  
Strike, pressing the button for the ground floor, sensed that he’d said the wrong the thing and immediately attempted to backtrack. “What I mean is…” he swallowed hard, “You’re very attractive in an understated, classy way…not that purple glitter isn’t classy…shit, I’m not making…_**SHIT!!!**_**”**   
  
The lift let out an almighty groan and jolted to a standstill, nearly throwing both of its occupants off balance. Robin tightened her grip on the waist level hand rail, while Strike winced, having braced too hard on his bad leg.   
  
She saw the pain wash across his face and immediately the previous couple of minutes were forgotten.   
  
“Are you okay?”

“I’ll be fine,” he huffed, “There must be an emergency call button somewhere.”   
  
But there wasn’t. Just a small sticker, giving the phone number of the maintenance company. He watched as Robin dialled and spoke.   
  
“Yes, two adults. Any special circumstances?” she glanced surreptitiously at Strike’s leg, “No. How long? Ok, thanks. Bye.”   
  
She looked up at Strike, her expression resigned. “They’ll be here within an hour.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robin and Strike wait to be rescued.

It didn’t take long for Strike’s patience to start wearing thin. The atmosphere in the lift was uneasy – the combination of circumstances and the faux pas he’d made with his comment on Robin’s nail varnish. He couldn’t believe something so bloody trivial was making him so uncomfortable, and that was definitely all it was, he told himself firmly. Nothing to do with him feeling mortified that he’d upset her, or marvelling at how different her hair looked, or wondering what she was wearing underneath her traditional winter coat. It was just mild embarrassment, frustration and the desperate need for a fag that was making him feel as though electricity rather than blood was thrumming through his veins.

Robin, phone in hand, was pretending to play Countdown whilst surreptitiously watching Strike pace the tiny area like a caged tiger. Tension radiated off him and filled the space, making her feel increasingly on edge, and she worried he’d harm his leg, which already needed rest after a gruelling week of surveillance. She wasn’t silently fretting about the meaning behind his comment at all, she told herself, just anxious about arriving late to the bar. And the fact that the lift was so small and there was just…so much of him…anyone would feel a bit claustrophobic.

“Cormoran, for God’s sake stand still and try and rest your leg for a few minutes,” she said sharply. “You’re not doing yourself any favours and you’re driving me up the wall.”

He froze momentarily, surprised at her tone. She was always forthright, but rarely snappy. He huffed out a sigh and dropped back heavily next to her against the wall of the lift, glancing down at her phone.

P N U Z I G N P I

She’d managed to find ‘nipping’ for seven letters and still had ten seconds left.

“There’s a nine-letter word there…” he said.

She looked at him in astonishment, “What?!”

He cleared his throat briefly, wishing he hadn’t been quite so desperate to break the uncomfortable silence.

“Unzipping.”

She glanced at him and back to the screen, fingers tapping furiously. She wasn’t fast enough though and the clock timed out before she entered the word.

“Bollocks!” she huffed, switching the phone off and putting it back in her coat pocket. “I can’t concentrate anyway…it’s too bloody hot in here.”

She unwound her scarf and dropped it the floor, where Strike had already shrugged off his coat.

“I could kill for a fag,” muttered Strike.

“Can’t help you there, I’m afraid…although…”

She rummaged in her pocket and with a triumphant flourish produced...

“Chocolate! Here you go.”

He grinned back at her, seizing the king size Mars bar and tearing off the wrapper. “Want some?”

“No, I’m…oh, go on then…”

He watched, dumbstruck as she wrapped her fingers around his proffered hand and she bent her head to take a bite, licking her lips clean of a stray dribble of caramel.

_Oh God…_

He took a hearty bite of chocolate and tried to marshall his wayward thoughts.

_You’re a walking cliché, you twat!_

“How long’s it been now?”

“What?! Oh, twenty minutes,” she replied, checking her watch. “God, I’m baking.”

Although it was mid-December, the lift sat adjacent to the wall that housed the heating and hot water pipes that fed all four floors of the building. Strike tried desperately to avert his eyes as she unbuttoned her coat and added it to the pile of outerwear in the corner of the lift, concentrating on finishing the last of the chocolate and stuffing the wrapper in his trouser pocket.

“Where are you off to anyway?” she asked, forcing him to look at her. He was briefly reminded of the moment he saw her exit the changing room at Vashti in the poison green Roberto Cavalli, a surge of simple, unsolicited want hitting him in the solar plexus, not to mention somewhere a little further south. Coming hot on the heels of the chocolate scenario, he was starting to wish he’d kept his coat on. If he didn’t get his thoughts in order fast, he mused, he’d be needing the extra coverage.

Robin wasn’t wearing green, but a deep rich purple that perfectly matched the glittery nail polish on her toes. The silky fabric clung to her shoulders by spaghetti straps and pooled above her breasts in a soft cowl before insinuating itself over the gently undulating curves of her body and ending at knee level. If there was scope for any underwear beneath the garment it was surely minimal. Whilst he may have hoped she wouldn’t notice his barely concealed reaction, he had sorely underestimated her observational skills. She’d seen the briefest flare of his pupils and heard the almost imperceptible hitch as he inhaled, and it had sent a ripple of…something…straight through her. Something she didn’t dare give any further consideration to, let alone try to name.

“Chippy, beer, fags…standard Friday night,” he replied, once he was able to breathe again.

“No ‘amputee curious’ supermodels lining up to keep you company then?” she joked, referring to his long ago one-night stand with Ciara Porter.

“Not for a while,” he murmured, “How about you? Do you know many of Vanessa’s friends?”

He might have been fishing, subconsciously of course, but he wasn’t expecting to catch anything.

“I’ve met a couple of them before but there’s eight of us going out so a few new faces…” she paused for a moment. “To be honest I’m slightly envious of your chippy tea and night in front of the telly.”

He looked at her, giving her the benefit of his eyebrow raised disbelieving expression.

“She’s mentoring a new recruit,” Robin continued reluctantly, “…and I suspect she’s trying to set us up.”

“Well…” Strike had never wanted a cigarette more, “…he’s a lucky fella, you look great.” He attempted a mischievous grin in spite of himself, “…Even the toenails.”

She shot him a mock outraged look and giggled.

“I’m hardly a fashion guru,” he conceded, “I was trying to pay you a compliment.” He blushed slightly and looked down at the floor, and she felt something warm and soft blossom in her heart.

_Dangerous_, she reprimanded herself, _unprofessional and dangerous and never going to happen._

There were several minutes of awkward silence once more, then suddenly Robin cocked her head to one side.

“Listen…” she said. He looked at her, unconvinced, “No, really listen.”

The faint sound of voices and footsteps drifted upwards.

“Engineers?”

“Thank fuck for that!” Strike breathed a sigh of relief.

The fact that he’d now been standing in one position for forty-five minutes was the least of his problems. With Robin beside him, swathed in tastefully revealing silk, hair soft on her shoulders, her perfume filling the cramped space, he was struggling to contain both his thoughts and his hands.

The temptation was becoming almost overwhelming.


	3. Chapter 3

And then, with a loud ‘thunk’ the lift jolted, and reality prevailed once more.  
  
Strike passed Robin her coat and scarf and shrugged his own back on, wishing she’d meant what she’d said about eating fish and chips in front of the telly being a better option than her night out. Although, he reminded himself, she had said nothing about eating fish and chips with him.  
  
_Well, of course not. _  
  
The door opened into the foyer of Denmark Street. “Have a good one then,” he nodded.  
  
“You too…enjoy your chips,” she grinned, and with a quick wave headed off in the direction of Covent Garden.

* * *

They were not good chips. Whether it was because they actually tasted like greasy cardboard, or because he was too busy wondering what Vanessa’s new friend was like to enjoy them, Strike wasn’t entirely sure. He cracked open a third bottle of Doom Bar and channel hopped listlessly, wondering if he was imagining that he could still smell Robin’s perfume. He dropped his head back on the sofa, closed his eyes and pictured her in the lift, slightly flushed with the heat, toenails sparkling.  
  
The next thing he knew he was back in the lift with Robin. He had her pressed against the wall, her legs wrapped around him, his hands in her hair, kissing her as if his life depended on it. There was a sound of banging, presumably the engineers working below them. But it went on and on and then he heard Robin calling his name, even though she was right there in front of him, surrounding him.  
  
He opened his eyes blearily to the realisation that he had been dreaming and was in fact, slumped on his sofa with a raging erection and a half empty bottle of beer about to spill on the carpet. But still the banging continued.  
  
“Cormoran.”  
  
He looked at his door, confused, rubbed his eyes and shook his head.  
  
“Cormoran…wake up...please.”  
  
Strike registered her voice crack on the last word, immediately rendering him fully awake, and mercifully taking the edge off his priapic state sufficiently to avoid any embarrassment.  
  
“Robin? Hang on I’m on my way.”  
  
He opened the door to find Robin, face blanched, breathing heavily. She immediately threw herself into his arms with a muffled ‘thank God’. Strike held her, manoeuvring her gently into the tiny flat and kicking the door shut with his good foot, his mind racing with thoughts of what might have brought her to his door in such a state at approaching midnight. When he sensed that she’d calmed down a little, he led her to the sofa and sat her down.  
  
“Tea?”  
  
“Actually, have you got another one of those,” she nodded at his growing beer bottle collection on the side table.  
  
He went to the fridge, cracked two bottles open and returned to sit beside her. She’d pulled herself together somewhat in the meantime and gave him a watery smile as she took the beer from him.  
  
“What happened?”  
  
“It really wasn’t that bad,” she said, indicating her tear-stained face, “this…is just relief that you were in. I’ll be fine in a minute, really.”  
  
“Robin…what happened?”  
  
She picked at the label on the bottle, not meeting his eye.  
  
“Vanessa’s colleague – Jason - the one I thought she was setting me up with…I was right.”  
  
Strike said nothing. There was clearly more to this than an embarrassing or incompatible blind date. He realised with a not unfamiliar lurch to his stomach that the thought of ‘Robin’ and ‘date’ in the same sentence made him feel nauseous.  
  
“So, the drinks and meal were fine, and he seemed like a nice bloke, notwithstanding his career choices before he joined the MET.”  
  
Strike frowned, confused.  
  
“He was an accountant,” she giggled weakly.  
  
“Ah.”  
  
Another pause. Strike felt increasingly uneasy about where Robin’s story was going. He had a distinct feeling it was leading to a place where he would struggle to not lose his temper, which would be no good for either of them. She took a look gulp of beer before continuing.  
  
“Everyone fancied going clubbing, apart from me, y’know being a divorced old fart and everything…”  
  
_Yes, you are, he thought…everything..._  
  
“...so Jason offered to walk me back to the tube and catch up with them at the club. I thought it was sweet as I think I’d made it fairly clear by that point that I wasn’t interested in him in _that_ way.”  
  
Strike took a deep breath, feeling prickles of anger run up his spine. He flexed his fingers as a distraction, and his knuckles cracked loudly in the quiet room. Robin looked at him, eyebrow raised reprovingly.  
  
He cleared his throat. “Sorry, go on.”  
  
“I’m not sure I should.”  
  
“Robin, I’m obviously not going to like what you’re about to tell me. That doesn’t mean I’m going to hunt the guy down and thump him. I do have some self-control.”  
  
He reached out and took and took her hand. “You’re my priority right now. What happened next?”  
  
“Nothing really happened. I obviously hadn’t made my feelings as clear as I thought. On the walk back to the tube he hinted a few times at not going back to meet the others and I just glossed over it, but when we got there…he was…hard to shake off.”  
  
Strike knew only too well his face would betray his feelings, so he concentrated hard on his beer bottle, his grip on it tightening as he asked quietly, “He didn’t get physical with you, did he?”  
  
“God, no! I mean, he had hold of my arm at one point, but nothing I couldn’t have handled if I’d needed to. He was quite drunk too, more than I realised when we left the bar. No, he was just persistent…and a bit abusive when he realised that he wasn’t going to get what he wanted…” her voice tailed off and when Strike dared to look at her he could see two silent tears tracing down her cheeks.  
  
She turned to look at him. “He reminded me of Matthew…at the end, when I left,” she whispered, “…and I just couldn’t face the thought of getting home halfway across London on public transport on my own, and I was around the corner, so you were the first person I thought of. You don't mind, do you?"  
  
He reached out and gave her a brief, slightly awkward hug. “’Course I don’t mind. We’re partners.”  
  
“Anyway,” she said, draining the last of her beer and getting to her feet, “I’m okay now, so I’d best make a move.”  
  
He watched her rearrange her scarf, button her coat and gather her handbag, and thought of the forty-minute journey home she had ahead of her. It was gone midnight now and he wasn’t sure what disturbed his equilibrium more – the thought of her making that journey alone, or the alternative. Before his brain had time to reach a conclusion, he heard himself speak.  
  
“Robin…stay?”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Strike offers Robin a bed for the night after her date-gone-wrong.

She paused and looked at him, “Really?”

“Have my bed, I’ll set up the camp bed in here…or I can sleep on the sofa in the office if you’d be more comfortable with that?”

To his relief she didn’t look horrified at the suggestion, but still she hesitated.

“Look,” he continued, “You’ll be doing me a favour. I’ve got that surveillance job in the morning – it’s a short one, but an early start and to be honest, I won’t sleep knowing you’re travelling across London alone at this time of night…”

She smiled and he thought he saw a hint of a blush.

“Okay then,” she agreed, “If you’re sure you’ll be okay on the camp bed?”. She shrugged off her coat once more. “Do you have t-shirt or something I could borrow,” she looked down ruefully at the silky dress, “Can’t really sleep in this.”

“Top drawer,” he nodded in its general direction, trying to ignore the spread of warmth through his chest that came with the realisation that she was happy to have him sharing the flat for the night rather than relocating to the farting office sofa. “I’ll go and get the camp bed and sleeping bag from downstairs – give you a chance to sort yourself out.”

As soon as he was gone, Robin went over to the immaculately ordered t-shirt drawer and selected the biggest one she could find, slipping into it before going to the loo and purloining a swig of Strike’s mouthwash. She dived under the duvet and was laying on her stomach fiddling with her phone when he came through the door. She smiled up at him and for a split second he almost forgot to breathe, then he gathered himself.

“Okay?”

“Yes, thank you. I didn’t really fancy that journey either to tell you the truth. I really appreciate this.”

“S’fine,” he smiled back. “G’night.

And with that he headed around the corner to make camp for the night.

* * *

Robin woke just after 3am, hyperventilating after an unpleasant dream combining the previous evening’s events with some of her other traumatic experiences. It took a moment to realise where she was, and although the room was unfamiliar, she felt instantly comforted by the awareness of Strike’s presence just a few feet away. She sat up in bed and concentrated on her breathing techniques for several minutes until she felt able to attempt to sleep again.

Her head had barely hit the pillow when she heard a loud shout from the neighbouring room.

** _“Brake...brake...BRAKE!!!”_ **

Robin sat up on the edge of the bed, listening intently. It became clear from the muffled noises coming from the sitting room that Strike had managed to wake himself up shouting. She took a few steps towards the kitchen area that bisected the tiny flat.

“Cormoran, are you alright?”

“I’m fine Robin,” his voice was hoarse and tense, “Go back to sleep.”

She paused for a moment.

“I wasn’t sleeping,” she responded tentatively, “I was just going to make a cuppa if that's ok. Do you want one?”

She heard him sigh heavily.

“Alright…thanks.”

It was slightly chilly in the flat now, and Robin spotted Strike’s now-familiar burgundy half-zip jumper draped on the chest of drawers and slipped it on, for both warmth and a bit of extra coverage, before setting to making the drinks. By the time she took them through, Strike had pulled himself onto the little sofa, blanket draped over his legs, and put on the table lamp which cast a glow over the ramshackle space, rendering it cosier and less shabby.

He couldn’t quite control the miniscule upward twitch of his mouth at the sight of her in his favourite jumper as she handed him his mug.

“You don’t mind, do you?” she gestured downwards.

“’Course not.”

She sat down beside him, purloined a section of the blanket to cover her bare legs, and clinked her mug with his.

“Were you really awake?” he asked sheepishly.

“You’re not the only one who has nightmares, you know,” she joked. “God, what a pair we are.”

“Are you okay?” his eyes were full of concern for her, although she noticed that he was still shaking.

“Meh…I’ve had worse. You?”

“I’ve had better,” he glowered darkly.

“It’s easier and quicker to get over them now,” she continued. “Now that I’m not constantly worried about Matt noticing and banging on about them.”

“That’s good.”

There was a heavy silence. Robin wondered if she dared voice what she was thinking. She thought back to something Strike had said to her in the Tottenham, the night he’d found out about Charlotte’s engagement - _“I think you’ve got to know when to ask a question…give people time…”_  
Sat in the soft lamplight in the early hours of the morning, it was like they were cocooned from real life, and somehow that made it easier to speak freely about matters they wouldn't have dreamed of mentioning during the day.

“How was Charlotte about your nightmares?”

Strike tipped his head back and thought for a moment.

“Charlottian,” he said, wryly. “I think she enjoyed the drama at first. Liked to play the ministering angel. Then when she realised they were probably going to a regular fixture she lost interest…which was fine – better than being fussed over to be honest.”

“God, I’m sorry I didn’t mean to…”

“I know,” he smiled, “This isn’t fussing, this is…perfect.”

Robin smiled warmly back at him, her eyes full of affection, although he didn’t see it as he slugged back the last of his hot tea in one gulp.

“Christ knows how I’m going to get up for that surveillance job though. I feel way too wired to sleep still.”

Robin looked at him thoughtfully for a minute, then grinned.

“I think I might be able to help with that,” she said, tweaking a cushion from behind her and placing it on her lap. “Lie down.”

He eyed her warily, one-hundred and one conflicting thoughts seemingly rushing through his brain simultaneously.

“Come on, one good turn deserves another,” she patted the cushion, “Do you want to get back to sleep or not?”

Far from convinced that whatever Robin was suggesting would help him off to sleep, he nonetheless did as he was told, curling across the sofa so his head was resting on the cushion.

“Right…”she said, and he felt her cool fingertips make contact with his head, meandering through the surprisingly soft, dark curls and moving in slow circles over his scalp. He was aware of his body beginning to relax almost immediately.

“Where the hell did you learn that?” he asked quietly, trying to stifle a groan of pleasure as her touch became a little firmer.

“Saturday job at the village hairdressers,” she replied. “Just sweeping and doing the shampoo, condition and head massage bit.”

“ ‘splains why your hair always looks so beautiful,” he murmured sleepily.

Robin felt a tiny clench in her heart, which she tried desperately to ignore.

“Shhhh…” she soothed, and she continued her ministrations. Within a short while, both of them were sound asleep.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after Robin and Strike's 'sleepover'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've simplified this into just the one fic. The smutty re-write will be back at some point, but for now I'm sticking with this and would rather keep it uncomplicated for the time being!

A few hours later Strike awoke, stiff, bemused but nonetheless aware that he'd had the best few hours’ sleep he could remember for months. He didn’t allow himself time to dwell on why that might be.

He shut the alarm off quickly so as not to wake Robin, who had barely stirred, and went about his morning routine, eschewing his usual nicotine fix for an extra strong black coffee in light of his sleeping house guest.

He noticed as he sat down at the tiny, chipped Formica table with his mug that Robin had listed awkwardly sideways. Carefully, he took the cushion from her lap, set it on the arm of the sofa and gently manoeuvred her into a laying down position, smiling to himself at the fact she apparently shared his ability to sleep through almost anything, and trying to ignore the impulse to drop a kiss on her golden head as he tucked the blanket around her shoulders. He'd just picked up his mug when the sound of his mobile phone pierced the early morning silence.

‘Ilsa?” he whispered, “What’s the matter?”

“Corm? Oh, shit I’ve called you by mistake. Meant to catch Nick coming off his night-shift, we’ve run out of cat food. Why are you whispering? Have you got someone there with you?”

He paused, never keen to indulge Ilsa’s somewhat prurient interest in his love life, even less so to encourage her fantasies about him and Robin getting together. Unfortunately, the pause gave away almost as much as an outright answer to his oldest friend who could read him like the proverbial book.

“You have, haven’t you? Please tell me it’s Robin not some random bit of skirt.”

“Ilsa,” he hissed, “Will you give it a rest?”

“It is, isn’t it?” Her excitement was palpable down the phone, which Strike had tucked under his ear so he could get his shoe and coat on in order to leave the flat before his conversation woke his sleeping partner. He silently cursed the fact it was barely above freezing and he couldn’t just leave without a coat, scarf and gloves, given that he’d be spending the next couple of hours traipsing around Bloomsbury in near Baltic gloom.

“Yes, it is, but it’s not what you’re thinking. She had a bad date. Came here to let off some steam and I was worried about her getting home late and on her own. I was firmly on the camp bed.”

He felt a warm flush rising from his chest as he glanced over at the sofa where he’d actually spent most of the night, Robin’s fingertips nestled in his dark curls.

“Bad date?” Ilsa groaned audibly down the phone. “You know you could stop all that if you just told her how you bloody feel. You’d be doing both of you a favour.”

“And risk messing up the best relationship I’ve had with a woman? No, you’re alright thanks Ils.”

“But it’s not is it? It’s not what you really want?”

“What I really want is irrelevant. She’s never shown any sign of seeing me as anything more than a business partner and friend, and I’d rather have that than fuck it all up by making some unwanted declaration and scaring her off.”

He looked back once more at Robin still mercifully asleep on his sofa, as he made his way through the front door and sighed as he pulled it shut behind him.

“I don’t think she’s the one who’s scared Corm,” said Ilsa gently.

“I need to go now,” he replied, drawing the subject firmly to a close, “I’m heading off on surveillance.”

“’Okay, but this is not the end of this discussion Cormoran Strike.”

He rolled his eyes affectionately down the phone.

“I don’t doubt it for a minute,” he drawled, before ending the call.

* * *

Beneath the blanket on Strike’s sofa, Robin finally opened her eyes, her head spinning. She’d been slightly awake and aware that she was being talked about. Just as she was about to lever herself upright and make a joke about her ears burning, she’d heard Strike refer to ‘the best relationship I’ve had with a woman’ and hadn’t been able to resist the temptation to play possum a while longer.

She hadn’t expected to hear what had come next. _He_ was the one that always scrupulously professional, never giving any indication of feelings for her beyond friendship and professional respect. Sure, their relationship had become warmer and easier since she’d left Matthew, but she’d put that down to her being more relaxed and not constantly worrying about her husband’s deeply ingrained dislike of both Strike and her career choice.

There were her own feelings for him of course, which she’d clearly done an excellent job of concealing. She wasn’t sure whether to congratulate herself or weep at the thought.

_So now what?_

She knew how she felt, she now knew how Strike felt. It was only three months since she’d left Matthew. The financial and practical ties between them had been dissolved, the divorce application accepted, and she was waiting for her decree nisi. So much had happened so quickly. Could she really consider taking her relationship with Strike beyond what they already were to one another? It seemed highly unlikely that he would be the one to make that move. What if he meant what he said about maintaining their working relationship and rebuffed her despite his feelings?

But what if she didn’t say something? Eventually he’d meet someone else. Did she want to have to watch him with another Elin, another Lorelei? God forbid…another Charlotte, or worse, actual Charlotte? She recalled how her heart had plummeted when she'd seen them leaving the Paralympic reception together a few months ago and felt slightly nauseous at the mere thought.

She breathed in deeply and exhaled a loud and dramatic sigh. Thinking was doing nothing other than giving her a headache. She padded to bathroom, freshened up, swapped Strike’s t-shirt and jumper for her own previous day’s work clothes and tidied up the sofa and camp bed before leaving the flat.


	6. Chapter 6

Strike made his way back to Denmark Street two hours later, frozen to the bone, both legs aching due to the extra care he’d had to take not to slip on the icy pavements and weary from his disturbed night. He considered too that going back to bed for a while would at least give his brain some respite from the thoughts that had been churning through it since he’d left earlier.

Strike had spent most of the morning thinking about Robin, reliving every moment of the previous evening, including at one point the rather pleasant and entirely inappropriate dream he’d been enjoying just prior to her turning up on his doorstep. Having exhausted his memories of how it had felt when she’d hurled herself into his arms, how protective he’d felt when she’d explained what had happened, the way she’d smiled up at him from his bed and the way her fingers had felt in his hair, his thoughts moved on to the conversation he’d had with Ilsa and his reasoning for ignoring her advice.

His relationship with Robin was at a high point. Professionally she was both easy and exciting to work with – they balanced each other in a way that benefited the business in every way and made each working day easier, even when, as inevitably happened from time to time, it was all going to hell in a handcart. On a personal level…well. He had never been entirely convinced he would meet anyone who would live up to Charlotte, but Robin not only matched her in terms of intelligence and humour, she was kind and easy to be around. She was beautiful too, not in the glacial, one-dimensional way that Charlotte had been, but by virtue of the way her warmth shone out of her blue-grey eyes and her face expressed every emotion with disarming honesty.

The only thing that was missing from their relationship was the fact that they weren’t actually in one, at least not of the kind he spent at least an hour a day fantasising about. The thought of risking what they had now, when he’d so nearly lost it before, and it had taken so long to recover, was unbearable.  
Then he recalled how he had felt when she’d mentioned Vanessa trying to set her up with someone, even before he’d known the bloke in question was a malevolent wanker. It was still early days, but at some point, she would meet someone new. Matthew had already been a fixture when they’d met. How could he bear seeing her in a new relationship with someone else? Watching her in those heady first few months of new love…with someone else. He could hardly stand to think about it, let alone stand by and watch it happen. But to do anything else would be to jeopardise what they already had.

Cursing the perpetually knackered lift, he hauled himself slowly up the stairs, pausing on the second-floor landing, knowing he should head straight into the office and file a report on the morning’s surveillance, but he was too cold and after his disturbed night the tiredness was kicking in with a vengeance. Bracing himself for the final flight of stairs, he headed on upwards to his flat, trying to ignore the tiny ember of hope that Robin might still be asleep on his sofa.

He was sorely disappointed when he opened the door. She was gone, the flat left immaculate. He flicked the kettle on, shrugged off his coat and scarf and turned to hang them on the hook by the door. It was only then that he noticed the envelope on the floor, the same kind as the ones they used in the office. Perplexed, he picked it up, tore it open and sat at the little table to read it whilst he waited for the kettle to boil.  
  
_**Dear Cormoran, **_  
  
_**Thank you for letting me stay last night. I would have been fine getting home on my own, but I was very glad I didn’t have to. I can’t tell you how much it means, knowing that you have my back. **_  
  
_**I would say it means more now that I’m on my own, but the truth is it meant just as much when I was with Matthew, probably more a lot of the time. You have always believed in me, always supported and encouraged me and always been there for me without judgement or trying to make me into something I’m not. I can only hope that I’ve been able to return those things, at least in some way, some of the time. **_  
  
_**When I first came to your office (once you’d managed to save me from an untimely death on the staircase!) I wondered what the hell I’d done. Within days I knew I didn’t want to leave, and that wasn’t just the job, it was you. **_  
  
_**Over the years you’ve gone from being my boss and mentor, to my business partner and best friend. It’s been an amazing journey so far and you’ve been beside me every step of the way. **_  
  
_**However, the truth is, my feelings for you have not been entirely platonic for a long time. When we stood on the stairs at Swinton Park, I was willing you to ask me to come back to London with you. So, although this may seem sudden and ‘too soon’ after me leaving Matthew, it is not something new at all. I think it’s always been there, even before I realised and certainly long before I admitted it to myself. **_  
  
_**I know our situation is not straightforward. We both have ‘baggage’ and there is the business to consider, but I think together we’re stronger than that, and I’d really like to find out if we could be something else – something more, to each other. I think that’s what you want too. **_  
  
_**So, Comptoir Libanais, Poland Street at 10.30? If you want to talk about this letter, we can, if not, I’ll treat you to brunch as a thank you for last night and you can tell me how you got on this morning. **_  
  
_**See you soon.**_  
  
_**Love, Robin x**_


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Strike has a decision to make...

10.25am saw Robin arrive and take her seat at a table for two at her favourite Lebanese restaurant. There was no sign of Strike, but she wasn’t expecting him to be early. She gave the butterflies in her stomach a stern, silent talking to and ordered a pot of rose mint tea.

It was busy in the restaurant and nearly ten minutes had elapsed before she saw the waiter approaching with her drink. Her heart was thumping in her chest by now and she was hoping the peppermint content of the tea might quell the nausea rising in her stomach. She checked her phone as the waiter set down the little silver pot, tea cup and saucer, then paused momentarily, a nervous expression on his face.

“Miss Ellacott?” he asked.

She looked at him quizzically.

“Yes,” she replied slowly.

“I was asked to give you this,” and he handed her an envelope. One she instantly recognised. It was identical to the one she had posted under Strike’s door a few hours previously, taken from the office in Denmark Street.

She forced herself to pour her tea and take a fortifying sip, before opening the envelope with shaking fingers and beginning to read.

_ **Robin,** _

_ **I have read your letter, I’m not sure that a busy restaurant on a Saturday morning is the time or place to discuss its contents, but I don’t think either of us will be able to sit there making small talk either, which is why you are now reading this instead of staring at my ugly mug across the table.** _

_ **When you turned up on my doorstep last night I was horrified and angry about the way that idiot had treated you, but at the same time pleased that you felt you could turn to me for support. I know how much pride you take in your independence, and the fact that you allow me to be there for you when you are vulnerable is an honour and a privilege.** _

_ **When you arrived in Denmark Street nearly three years ago, I was at one of the lowest points of my life. My relationship with Charlotte had just imploded, I was homeless and my business was on the verge of collapse. I was impressed by you immediately and attracted to you as well – who wouldn’t be? But I was so relieved to see your engagement ring. It meant there was already a barrier in place, no need for me to build my own walls. Had you been single it would have been far too easy for me to do something that would no doubt have sent you running for the hills and deprived both of us of the business and relationship we now share.** _

_ **The first time you split up with Matthew, before the wedding – when I saw you without that ring…I realised I should have built my own walls. Nothing could have prepared me for how I felt that night. And then a few days later the ring was back, and if seeing you without it was a shock to the system, seeing it back on – Jesus, that nearly broke me Robin. And then you married him, and I had no choice but to build my own walls where you were concerned, all the while kicking myself for not saying something in those brief few days when I’d had the chance.** _

_ **And now here we are, and those walls are coming down again. You’re right, I do want more from this, from us – so much more. But I’m still scared that I’ll fuck things up by saying the wrong thing, which is why I’m writing this all down instead of telling you face to face how I feel.** _

_ **I need to know you are sure this is what you want. I’m ten years older than you, an out of shape, one-legged chain-smoker. I know I want to share my future with you, but I don’t know how that future will look. I also know that in the meantime our pasts will catch up with us – Matthew, Charlotte, your family, Mitch bloody Paterson and Culpepper will no doubt all have something to say when they find out.** _

_ **You are the strongest, bravest woman I’ve ever met - I know you’re worth it. Do you really think I am? Are you absolutely sure that’s what you want? Because I need to know you’re certain – I can’t build those walls up again.** _

_ **If the answer’s ‘yes’…order me the Comptoir Full Breakfast and I’ll see you shortly.** _   
_ **C x** _


	8. Chapter 8

From his vantage point in the Thai café opposite, Strike watched Robin arrive at Comptoir Libanais. The sun was shining and had lifted the temperature several degrees since first thing, making her usual thick coat surplus to requirements.

She was wearing dark blue skinny jeans with Converse and a collarless, black leather jacket – a new and somewhat edgier than usual addition to her wardrobe since leaving Matthew. She unwound her lengthy teal scarf and hung the jacket on the back of her chair, revealing a dark red, fitted jumper beneath.

His eyes flickered across the restaurant as a young woman came to take her order, and he frowned slightly. His expression darkened over the following minutes as he watched Robin nervously fiddling with her hair, checking her phone and frequently glancing at the door. This was not how he’d anticipated this panning out…where the fuck was…ah, there he was, heading her way with a pot of tea and the envelope – about bloody time. He hadn’t intended for her to sit there thinking he’d stood her up.

As he watched Robin steel herself to open the envelope, Strike began to fear he’d gone about this entirely the wrong way. He watched as best he could, between people coming and going, as she read the letter. Her face fell as she began to read, then lightened as she continued, but by the time she reached the end of the missive, it was clear that she was crying, although her expression gave no clue as to the kind of tears she was desperately dashing from her cheeks.

She tucked the letter back in its envelope and sat for a few minutes, clearly thinking over what she’d just read, before calling over the waiter who had brought her tea. Strike was holding his breath now, but as she spoke to the young man at some length, a twitch of smile began to appear on his lips.

Then Robin got to her feet, put her jacket and scarf back on and headed out of the door and down Poland Street. 

Strike turned away from the window and slumped against the wall. He’d been certain that writing everything down would be the best way to tell her how he felt, but it seemed he’d seriously misjudged either the situation or Robin herself and the strength of her professed feelings for him. He refused to believe it was the latter, and oblivious to the surrounding customers, tried to stave off the rising feeling of self-loathing as he buried his head in his hands in a desperate attempt to stop the burning behind his eyes.

“Cormoran Blue Strike?”

He opened his eyes and there was Robin in front of him, her own blue-grey eyes blazing.

“I thought you’d gone…”

“Then you’re an even bigger idiot that I gave you credit for,” she retorted, “Fancy getting Joe to do your dirty work for you.”

Strike’s jaw dropped as she referenced the waiter who had delivered his letter. “How do you know Joe?”

“I did live with Nick and Ilsa for over a month – it’s not that much of a stretch that I’d have met Spanner’s best mate.”

Robin took in the sight of the man standing in front of her, dishevelled and vulnerable, and was suddenly overwhelmed with everything that had happened and been said between them over the previous twenty-four hours.

She stepped forward, reaching for his face and as she went up on her tiptoes, he bent his head and finally they exchanged a slow, tender kiss – this time on purpose.

Robin pulled away first.

“You are worth it,” she whispered softly, eyes shining with unshed tears. “You’re worth the falls on stairs and rummaging in bins for dog poo and the knife injuries and being door stepped by the press and threatened with guns and interfering relatives and a messy divorce. You said in your letter I’m the strongest, bravest woman you’ve met, but I wouldn’t be who I am without you…”

He pulled her more tightly into his arms.

“Me neither,” he smiled down at her.

She kissed him again, then straightened up purposefully and took his hand.

“Right, now we’ve got that sorted, we need to get back over the road. Joe’s holding our table and breakfast will be ready any minute.”

He let her lead him out of the café and across to their waiting table, wondering now exactly what he'd done in a past life to get so lucky. As they got to the door of the restaurant, he stopped in his tracks.

“What are you waiting for?” Robin turned to face him, “You know there's food the other side of this door, right?” she grinned.

He laughed. 

“Believe it or not, there is something more important than that.”

She raised her eyebrows, mock disbelieving.

“There was one thing I left out of that letter…something that was too important for me not to say it to you face to face...”

She waited, butterflies crowding her stomach once more as he reached out and tenderly stroked her cheek.

“I love you, Robin Ellacott.”


End file.
